Adam Bede eBook

“Ah, but the moods lie in his nature, my boy,
just as much as his reflections did, and more.
A man can never do anything at variance with his own
nature. He carries within him the germ of his
most exceptional action; and if we wise people make
eminent fools of ourselves on any particular occasion,
we must endure the legitimate conclusion that we carry
a few grains of folly to our ounce of wisdom.”

“Well, but one may be betrayed into doing things
by a combination of circumstances, which one might
never have done otherwise.”

“Why, yes, a man can’t very well steal
a bank-note unless the bank-note lies within convenient
reach; but he won’t make us think him an honest
man because he begins to howl at the bank-note for
falling in his way.”

“But surely you don’t think a man who
struggles against a temptation into which he falls
at last as bad as the man who never struggles at all?”

“No, certainly; I pity him in proportion to
his struggles, for they foreshadow the inward suffering
which is the worst form of Nemesis. Consequences
are unpitying. Our deeds carry their terrible
consequences, quite apart from any fluctuations that
went before—­consequences that are hardly
ever confined to ourselves. And it is best to
fix our minds on that certainty, instead of considering
what may be the elements of excuse for us. But
I never knew you so inclined for moral discussion,
Arthur? Is it some danger of your own that you
are considering in this philosophical, general way?”

In asking this question, Mr. Irwine pushed his plate
away, threw himself back in his chair, and looked
straight at Arthur. He really suspected that
Arthur wanted to tell him something, and thought of
smoothing the way for him by this direct question.
But he was mistaken. Brought suddenly and involuntarily
to the brink of confession, Arthur shrank back and
felt less disposed towards it than ever. The conversation
had taken a more serious tone than he had intended—­it
would quite mislead Irwine—­he would imagine
there was a deep passion for Hetty, while there was
no such thing. He was conscious of colouring,
and was annoyed at his boyishness.

“Oh no, no danger,” he said as indifferently
as he could. “I don’t know that I
am more liable to irresolution than other people; only
there are little incidents now and then that set one
speculating on what might happen in the future.”

Was there a motive at work under this strange reluctance
of Arthur’s which had a sort of backstairs influence,
not admitted to himself? Our mental business
is carried on much in the same way as the business
of the State: a great deal of hard work is done
by agents who are not acknowledged. In a piece
of machinery, too, I believe there is often a small
unnoticeable wheel which has a great deal to do with
the motion of the large obvious ones. Possibly
there was some such unrecognized agent secretly busy
in Arthur’s mind at this moment—­possibly
it was the fear lest he might hereafter find the fact
of having made a confession to the rector a serious
annoyance, in case he should not be able quite
to carry out his good resolutions? I dare not
assert that it was not so. The human soul is
a very complex thing.